


Destruct

by MonkeysInPants



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 7, Weird Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-05-01 17:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeysInPants/pseuds/MonkeysInPants
Summary: Cyclonus tries to deal with his feelings. Whirl tries to help. Neither is very successful, but it's the thought that counts, right?





	Destruct

**Author's Note:**

> Just something quick I wrote a while ago following the 'break up' in Lost Light #7 and never got around to posting until now! It's not the most coherent, but the world honestly needs more Cyclonus/Whirl of any sort, so.

Whirl is remarkably gentle with Cyclonus.

Make no mistake, what happens between them is _violent_. It's abrasive, and hard, and pushes Cyclonus until he aches. But there's no real damage done, no true pain, little more than scratches or dents to show for it, and for someone like Whirl a lack of harm is deliberate gentleness.

Cyclonus could take more. Would take more, wants more, can't handle the feelings inside of him, wishes he could purge them from his body with a thousand cuts. (It wouldn't work). But Whirl won't let him, holds him back with a soft grip and firm denials whenever his claws creep towards his already marred face. And Whirl is there every time.

Whirl hasn't left Cyclonus alone since they departed the Necroworld. Of course, on the ship it's inevitable. There are far too many bodies in far too little space for any of them to ever be truly alone for long. But even off the ship, Whirl follows him, doggedly shadowing him during every brief chance they get to stretch their wings. He appreciates Whirl for it as much as he hates him for it, depending on his mood.

Sometimes he leads him on a merry chase, the pair of them racing in the dark places between stars or across alien landscapes. Sometimes Cyclonus can lose himself in the burn of his thrusters, the blur of the ground passing beneath him, the sensation of atmosphere streaming across his flight surfaces. Sometimes they dance there, high above and far away from everything and everyone. Whirl doesn't know the motions, but Cyclonus teaches him the wordless songs of flight and remembers simpler times, before Galvatron and stillborn universes and-

Other times are like today, when Cyclonus feels suffocated by Whirl's constant attention. When he'd like nothing more than to tear out that ridiculous ever-watchful--and understanding, it disturbs him to look at Whirl and see something that resembles _empathy_ \--eye. Or better yet, pluck his own optics from his skull so he never has to see Whirl again.

But he does neither. Insteads he lands and scowls, standing tall and straight with a pride he hardly feels.

“Leave me be,” he demands when Whirl drops to his feet nearby.

“So I can do what, go hang out with the loser brigade? Yeah right!” Cyclonus hates that Whirl sounds so casual, his posture relaxed while his own is so tense. How is it that they've come to this: Whirl calm and Cyclonus in turmoil?

“I'm warning you, Whirl. Go away.”

“ _Make me._ ”

The similarity is not lost on him, between this and their first meeting. A chase, his desire to be left alone, Whirl's refusal to do so… Only it's not Whirl forcing the fight this time. It's Cyclonus, with clenched jaws and curled claws, tackling Whirl to the ground.

It's hardly a fight, both of them much more versed in killing than sparring, and neither truly interested in harming the other. Instead they grapple foolishly in the dust, gathering scratches and dents, trying to twist each other's limbs into an inescapable lock, metal striking metal. Just bottled up hurt and frustration vented aimlessly as simple aggression. At some point their tumble stops being a fight at all.

Cyclonus is fairly certain he’s the one who changed the nature their grappling, his angry grasping turning to desperate clutching. Whirl is the one who buries himself in Cyclonus’s needy body, pushing deep until the plating of their hips ring against each other. There's a pincer around Cyclonus's throat, holding him with just enough pressure to make his voice crackle with a hint of static. There are wicked claws curled into the gaps of Whirl's armor, pricking his wires, leaving great gouges in his paint.

Both have killed with these hands. Between them, this is gentleness. No less violent or rough than their recent scuffle, but still… gentle.

They move together for a long time, raising sparks when their metal grinds and clashes just right, pushing each other to their limit and past again and again, burning away the pain inside with something much more physical. 

When they finally slow to a halt, energy depleted, cooling systems overworked, Cyclonus’s body aches. He's abstained since the final time he let Galvatron press him down and take what he wanted. He welcomes the sensation, the tangible throb of it, so much easier to bear than the feelings that choke him.

Afterwards they sit next to each other and watch the red sun of this planet set, their metal pinging as it cools.

“He’s better off without me,” Cyclonus says into the silence of Whirl's meaningless chatter. “I have nothing to offer him.” If he can convince himself of that, then the longing in his spark is selfish, his pain pointless, their separation inevitable.

Whirl gives his best simulation of a snort. “You’re full of slag.”

Cyclonus gives him a sidelong look. “You said it yourself. Before.” Before Getaway. Before the Lost Light mutinied. Before--

“I'm even more full of slag than you are. Who the hell takes my advice?”

The silence stretches between them as Cyclonus looks away again, interrupted only by a persistent _tap-tap-tap_ of Whirl's claw against his thigh. It's not a surprise that Whirl is the first to speak again.

“Look. You're willing to die for Tailgate. Dying for someone else is stupid and I respect you less for it, but what I think doesn't matter. But you ever think he wanted a boyfriend more interested in living for him?”

Cyclonus has no answer for that, the emptiness in his spark slowly overtaking the ache in his body once more.

“So maybe you don't deserve him. _He_ doesn't deserve _you_ either. And _none_ of you--!” He shoves his claw into Cyclonus's face, pointing accusingly. “--deserve me.” Taking his hand back, Whirl gets to his feet, picking at a few of the deeper scratches decorating his cockpit. “But you put up with me anyway, so I guess I'm grateful for that or whatever. And that should mean something.”

The words aren't reassuring, or helpful, or comforting. Cyclonus doesn't expect otherwise from Whirl of all people. But the fact that he's even making the effort… yes, that does mean something. And right now Cyclonus can appreciate Whirl's company more than he can't stand it.

Rising to his own feet, he rests a hand on Whirl's shoulder, gives him an acknowledging nod. When it comes to feelings he's no good with words, something they share in common in different ways.

Before he transforms and blasts off towards the waiting ship, he manages two words: “Thank you.”

From Cyclonus, that means something.


End file.
